


In vain I have struggled

by paperlesscrown



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Extensive abuse of literary quotes, F/M, Fluff, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2019-02-05 09:41:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12791850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperlesscrown/pseuds/paperlesscrown
Summary: Jughead never liked Jane Austen. But the moment he finds out that Pride and Prejudice is Betty’s favourite book, he reluctantly borrows it from the library. What he finds is a story worth staying up for, and the courage to tell Betty how he feels about her.





	In vain I have struggled

**Author's Note:**

> I've always been curious about what propelled Jughead from helping Betty find Polly to their first, sudden kiss in 1.06. This is my twist on it, with a little Mr. Darcy thrown into the mix. A gift for all the Austen fans within the fandom.

The librarian looked at him with barely-concealed bemusement as he discreetly slid the book across the counter.

“ _Pride and Prejudice?_ Jughead Jones, really? _”_

Jughead rolled his eyes. So much for subtlety. _Whatever happened to librarian-reader confidentiality?_ He gave her a small nod and handed his library card over.

This was how Jughead Jones knew that he had a serious, inconvenient, irredeemable crush on Betty Cooper: after years of swearing her off, of dismissing her work as mere drivel, he was diving in and reading... Jane Austen.

_Jane. Austen._

The gossip columnist of Regency era England. The marriage plot writer extraordinaire.

It had been a week since he and Betty got into a blistering debate in the _Blue and Gold_ office, which ended with her uncharacteristically hurling a book at him. He couldn’t even remember how, but he had casually denounced Austen in favour of the Bronte sisters (“it doesn’t matter which one, they’d all trounce her work in a heartbeat”), at which point he heard her typing stop, then looked up to see a bewildered, green-eyed glare aimed his way.

A tense discussion ensued, which turned into a heated argument, which ended in said book being thrown at his head. They both paused, then burst out laughing when it landed with a thud on the floor, startled out of the intensity of their debate and amazed at the ridiculous turn it had taken. As she picked the book up, however, Betty announced that they were merely at a ceasefire, not a permanent peace treaty. Typical Betty Cooper: she wasn’t going to let this go.

“Have you even read _any_ of her books, Jug?”

He scoffed. “No, but that’s not the point.”

Betty rolled her eyes. “Well, you can’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it. I’m just saying, _Pride and Prejudice_ is epic. It’s not just marriage fluff and high-end gossip. It’s the story of two people who are so obviously in love with each other that it escapes their attention, and they spend most of the book dancing around that obvious truth. It’s hilarious. And it’s my absolute favourite.”

“You’re not really selling it well, Cooper.”

“Okay, how about this? It’s a social and satirical critique disguised as a love story.” She paused and gave him a questioning stare. “Come on. Any of that appeal to you?”

He chuckled and stood to leave, picking up his bag. “Betty, if I really needed a - what did you call it? - ‘social and satirical critique disguised as a love story’, I’d cover all my bases with _The Great Gatsby._ Much more succinct, and a totally kickass historical era.” She shook her head at him as he headed out the door. “You can keep Austen to yourself. Later, Betts.”

The whole conversation would have melted away from his subconscious had he not picked up a key phrase: _“It’s my absolute favourite.”_ Desperate to know her better, he had spent weeks trying to figure out what her favourite book was. He couldn’t just ask her straight out, of course - any decent reader knew that that was pretty much bookspeak for _“I like you. Please tell me if I can like you even more.”_

No. He had to resort to something more stealthy. Like casually asking her friends.

Archie, of course, had no idea. Kevin thought it might have been something by John Green (Jughead scoffed at that. Did they even _know_ the same Betty?). Veronica was still fairly new to the group, so she didn’t know.

So their little literary tiff in the _Blue and Gold,_ which yielded the answer he was looking for, was perfect. Or, rather, it wasn’t. Because now he had to read a book he’d previously dismissed in favour of the Brontes’ weightier works, like _Wuthering Heights_ and _Jane Eyre._

When he started reading (late at night, in the tiny janitor’s closet in Riverdale High that he now called home), he was ready to hate the book, ready to demolish it with his proverbial red pen. When he read the first sentence, however - _“it is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife” -_ he surprised himself by bursting into laughter at the pure, clean elegance of that sarcasm.

_What the hell? Austen is... sardonic?_

It was as if someone had taken his own narrative voice, transported it back into England in the 1800s and given it a feminine edge. Because wasn’t Austen essentially doing what he was doing now, writing about the failures and foibles of a little town? Sure, Riverdale’s undercurrent was much darker than Hertfordshire (although Rosings Park definitely gave him Thornhill vibes), but Austen’s voice still reminded him of his own - a detached figure with a penchant for sharp, critical social observation.

He took to carrying the book with him wherever he went, determined to finish reading it. Elizabeth Bennett reminded him so much of Betty - they shared a name after all, but also her sharp mind, her keen awareness of the world around her, her fierce love for her sister. Of course, the book was hidden well away whenever he was around her. If she ever saw it, she’d see straight through it immediately, and recognise that he was trying to peek into her soul. _Because that’s what everyone’s favourite books are,_ he thought. Tiny little windows into the deepest, most intimate places of the soul.

His reading had to take a backseat, however, once he and Betty commenced their mission to find Polly amongst the Sisters of Quiet Mercy. Whenever they were chasing a lead, they were both similarly tunnel-visioned in their focus, unrelenting in their pursuit. And so, as much as he was enjoying the fatuous absurdity of Mr. Collins, he knew he was going to have to drop it momentarily.

They were both taut with nerves as they boarded the bus to travel to the Sisters, but Jughead couldn’t help but be quietly thrilled as he sat down next to Betty. It was true that they were often alone in the _Blue and Gold_ office, but they were usually working - too absorbed in their tasks for the paper to take much interest in each other.

Here, squashed into a two-seater with her, he was able to slow down and take in everything about her - the glint of the sun against her hair, the gentle pout of her lips, the startling green of her eyes. She was tense; he could tell from the occasional ripple in her jawline, the restlessness of her leg, which often brushed up against his. She did, however, manage to smile every now and then as he rattled off random commentary about their surroundings and the people around them (including one unimpressed retiree who was eyeing them with suspicion, undoubtedly disapproving of the fact that they had skipped class).

But the warmth of her smile was temporary, and soon Jughead would be sobered up by the imposing facade of the Sisters’ building, and, later on, the sight of Betty clinging fiercely to her sister, who was screaming as she was dragged away by two orderlies.

“I’ll get you out of out here, I swear to God.” Betty’s words were soft, but somehow Jughead could hear them as clear as day. “I love you, Polly.”

Without even thinking of his own safety, he’d tried to get to her, to shove off anyone who was trying to touch her. It wasn’t until he was being pushed against a wall by another staff member that he’d realised what his body was doing. It shocked him to see how much he actually cared for her - how quickly he reacted before his mind had time to catch up. He was certainly no fighter, but the adrenalin pumping through his veins told him that he would have faced a raging bull for her in those moments. The feeling of it was still buzzing in his skin long after Polly had been pushed through the doors, away from their sight.

“Jughead, you better get yourself home.” It was Alice Cooper’s clipped, stern voice that brought him back to reality. She was obviously displeased that he’d gone ahead and helped Betty to find Polly, but he didn’t care about that right now. He looked past her and to her daughter, who was looking at him dolefully. 

 _Go,_ she mouthed at him. He gave her a small nod. The subtext was clear: there would be no point in protesting, in fighting Alice Cooper when she was in a mood. _She_ was looking out for _him_ , too.

At the bus stop, Jughead couldn’t stop thinking about Betty - her utter fearlessness as she held on to Polly, whispering fierce promises of protection. He thought of his earlier actions - his sudden click over into protectiveness - and they played over and over in his head like a loop, confronting him with their implications.

Frustrated, Jughead rubbed his face and readjusted his beanie, needing to focus on something else.

 _Pride and Prejudice._ He’d put it in the inside pocket of his jacket out of pure habit. _Bad idea, Jughead._ It was _her_ favourite book after all. How was he supposed to forget about her while reading it? But he had no choice. The bus wouldn’t be around for another half hour, and there wasn’t anything more compelling on his phone. He opened to the last page he read, and continued.

_“...she was suddenly roused by the sound of the door-bell, and her spirits were a little fluttered by the idea of its being Colonel Fitzwilliam himself, who had once before called late in the evening, and might now come to inquire particularly after her. But this idea was soon banished, and her spirits were very differently affected, when, to her utter amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the room...”_

 Jughead raised an eyebrow. _What the hell? What’s Darcy doing at the Parsonage?_ He read on.

_“...in an hurried manner he immediately began an inquiry after her health, imputing his visit to a wish of hearing she were better. She answered him with cold civility. He sat down for a few moments, and then getting up, walked about the room. Elizabeth was surprised, but said not a word. After a silence of several minutes, he came towards her in an agitated manner and thus began…”_

 Jughead held his breath as Darcy spoke.

_“‘In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.’”_

 He nearly dropped the book.

Mr. Darcy was in love with Elizabeth Bennett.

He should have seen that coming. After all, Darcy had been openly thinking about Elizabeth’s “fine eyes” all throughout the book. But this declaration of love floored Jughead. It was so sudden, so unlike Darcy, and yet it felt so right to have him so discomfited, so undone by his love for her.

He was starting to get it now, Betty’s fascination with this book. _Pride and Prejudice_ was social critique, yes, but she was right - it was also an epic romance. And Darcy? He was a man smitten beyond all recognition, to the point where it boiled over in such an obvious way...

_Hang on._

The book.

The bus ride.

The way he defended Betty at the Sisters.

_No._

But there would be no denying it; it was already clicking into place. The realisation slid into him, hot and clean like a knife.

 _He_ was falling in love with his own Elizabeth.

Jughead stood up suddenly, his agitation mirroring Darcy’s, his breath becoming sharp and fast. This time, in his shock, he actually dropped the book, startling himself. Sheepishly, he recovered it from the ground, then looked around him self-consciously before returning to his seat.

_Holy shit, Jughead. You’re falling for Betty._

But was it true? Was he right?

He had known for weeks that he _liked_ Betty, but this… this was something else entirely. What happened at the Sisters woke him up to that. This was something deeper, stronger, more tangible, more intimate.

It all checked out. He was a detective, after all. He liked logical conclusions. And the only conclusion here was that he was falling in love with Betty. That he had _already_ fallen in love with her.

This wasn’t just a crush. This was a _problem._

And there would be no undoing it. Jughead had very little experience with love, but he knew himself well enough to know that there would be no turning away the tide. It was far too late, and he was in too deep. This wasn’t something he could just casually recover from. This was going to pry his cold heart open, pour gasoline into it, and set it alight.

He sat back down, clutching _Pride and Prejudice_ in his hands. He was in shock, but he was also furious. To have been so blindsided by a book. By _Jane fucking Austen._ He sneered at the cover. 

He decided that he hated the book, after all.

…

But Jughead just couldn’t help himself.

Lying on his makeshift bed that night, he opened _Pride and Prejudice_ again. It was a way of breathing her in indirectly. By reading her favourite lines, he was peering underneath her skin, to the words that made her.

He wanted to read on, to find out how Elizabeth - who was furious at Darcy for meddling in her sister’s relationship with Bingley ( _and fair enough,_ thought Jughead) - would react to his sudden declaration of love. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make it past the speech. It was obvious why: he saw himself mirrored in those words. Darcy’s struggle was his own.

He sat up and looked at his phone, checking the time: 11.35 pm. Just then, a message from Betty popped up. He was so startled by the synchronicity between his thoughts and the appearance of her text that it made him slightly paranoid: did she know, somehow, that he was thinking of her? He unlocked his phone.

 **Betty:** _Thank you for today, and for being there for me and my sister._

It was simple and to the point, and Jughead appreciated it. It was as if the economy of her words spoke to the depth and significance of what they went through today, together.

He sent back an equally straightforward message. _You’re welcome. I’ll see you soon._ He figured they’d just talk about it on Monday, when they got back to school.

Or... would they? Now that he knew he had fallen for her, could he even muster any form of pretense that everything was normal between them? That he still only saw her as a friend? That there hadn’t been a shift in the atmosphere when he pushed all reason aside to try and defend her?

He laid back down in exhaustion. There was no sense in thinking himself into a corner. He picked the book up again.

…

Jughead was grateful for Saturday mornings. They meant quiet. They meant that he could sleep in without worrying about avoiding other students as he kept up the pretense that he had a home outside of the janitor’s closet at school.

Not this Saturday, though.

He thought that he’d eventually fall asleep while reading _Pride and Prejudice,_ but the urgent need to avoid his feelings for Betty coupled with his sudden fascination with the story meant that he had only continued reading.

Elizabeth’s furious rejection of Darcy stung Jughead, but Darcy’s subsequent letter detailing Wickham’s rogue behaviour had him enthralled. Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s appearance at Longbourn, and the resulting face-off with Elizabeth, gave him joy. Lady de Bourgh was formidable, but Lizzie was easily her equal. It was that moment more than anything else that reminded him of Betty: her strong sense of fairness, her willingness to put up a fight for herself and what she believed in.

It was nearly 5 in the morning when he got up to one of the later chapters - the part where Kitty, much too afraid of Darcy to last in his presence, asked Elizabeth for permission to call upon Maria Lucas while the three of them were out walking together. Jughead sat up. _Alright. Here we go._ After the scandal of Lydia’s elopement and her marriage to Wickham, Darcy and Elizabeth were finally alone.

_“Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature; and for the sake of giving relief to my own feelings, care not much I may be wounding yours. I can no longer help thanking you for your unexampled kindness to my poor sister…”_

 Jughead shifted in his seat. Betty’s text message echoed unbidden in his mind. _Thank you for today, and for being there for me and my sister._ He ignored it, and read Darcy’s reply.

 _“If you_ will _thank me, let it be for yourself alone. That the wish of giving happiness to you might add force to the other inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. But your_ family _owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe I thought only of_ you.”

Jughead wanted to throw something. He looked around and spotted a pile of paper - some worksheets for Biology. He crumpled all of them up, more furious than was necessary, and hurled them at the wall. And a pen, too, for added effect. It bounced off with a clatter.

“Fuck you, Jane Austen,” he muttered out loud, meeting dead silence. “Honestly. Fuck you.”

Jughead’s mind was aflame with frustration. The parallel was far too obvious to ignore: the scandal-ridden sister, the hapless but determined heroine, and the lovestruck suitor who wanted to come to her rescue. It was as if Austen was trying to tell him something.

But did he want to hear it? Did he even want to read on? Jughead rolled his eyes. Of course he did.

  _“Elizabeth was much too embarrassed to say a word. After a short pause, her companion added, ‘You are too generous to trifle with me. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once._ My _affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me on this subject for ever.’”_

 He read over that line again. _You are too generous to trifle with me._

Betty.

It all clicked into place. There was no way out of the tangled mess that he was in. Other than the one he could think of right now.

It was simple, really. He’d have to pull a Darcy.

He’d have to tell her.

Jughead felt his world shifting from the impact of the decision. At least the fallout would be minimal. Convinced as he was that she did not reciprocate his feelings, he knew Betty well enough to know that she wouldn’t laugh in his face, or use it against him, or shirk away from their friendship. It would be awkward for a while, but Betty, like Elizabeth, was too generous to trifle with him, too kind to be unnecessarily cruel or to give him any unwanted hope. In confessing to her, those feelings that he harboured in his heart would be out in the ether, and he could finally start thinking about how to get over her. It wouldn’t be easy, but at least the process could begin.

Jughead felt all of his anxiety melting away as it gave way to steely resolve. He lay back down and checked the time. It would be daylight soon.

A new day was dawning for Jughead Jones.

...

There were nine rungs on the ladder leading to Betty’s window.

Jughead knew the ladder well. As kids, he and Archie used to take turns daring each other to climb the whole thing. That all ended the day that Archie fell from the seventh rung and broke his arm. Hal and Alice had banned the boys from climbing the ladder since then. Archie was hurt, but smug - he had out-climbed Jughead.

_Not today, Andrews._

There were no cars in the driveway when he walked up to the Coopers’ house. _Good,_ he thought. No need for unnecessary complications.

Jughead went over to the side of the garage, where he knew the ladder had stayed put since Archie’s accident. He picked it up, propping it against the wall leading up to Betty’s bedroom. The distance was a mere nine steps, but in reality, he knew that he was crossing a line over to the point of no return.

Jughead hesitated as he looked up at the ladder. _Shit. A_ _m I really doing this?_

But he already knew the answer to that. He had to. He had no choice. It was beyond his control.

He felt the book in his pocket, and thought of Darcy - his outburst of love, his rushed, sudden proposal. The thought gave him courage. _In vain I have struggled. It will not do._ Over and over again, he repeated those nine words to himself - a mantra for boldness, for overcoming his fears, for propelling him towards the inevitable overflow of his heart.

_In vain I have struggled. It will not do._

Jughead was still chanting it in his head as he placed one foot on the first rung, and pulled himself up.

_In…_

Memories of Betty swam in his head. The bob of her ponytail as she sat hunched over her laptop, caught up in her prose, doggedly pursuing whatever story she was chasing that week for the _Blue and Gold..._

_...vain…_

...his foot hit the second rung. In his mind: the sway of her shoulders, the swish of her cheerleader’s skirt, the lights of Friday football nights setting her eyes aglow...

_...I…_

...the third rung. Her soft smile at the suit he had manage to cobble together for Jason’s funeral, her eyebrow arched in approval, his heart surging in elation...

_...have…_

...the fourth. He was still climbing. He hadn’t stopped. A sudden flashback of Betty, all of ten years old, sitting with him in the treehouse at their old place as they read together quietly…

_...struggled…_

…flashing forward to yesterday, her impassioned defense of her sister, the moment he knew with all certainty that he had fallen for her beyond his wildest imagination...

_...it…_

...slowly, his resolution gathered strength. But what was he to say?

_...will…_

How would he tell her? 

_...not…._

Austen’s words? Romeo’s balcony speech? What? _What?_

_...do._

The ninth and final rung on the ladder. He saw Betty seated at her vanity through the window. Every molecule in his body drew him towards her. Suddenly, it occurred to him.

_Fuck it._

He was going to kiss her.

He took a deep breath, and knocked on her window.

...


End file.
